Stay
by snuggalong
Summary: It was the one night he asked him to stay that he finally told him to leave. -FrUK, angst, written for Secret Santa exchange-


**Stay**

* * *

It was the one night he asked him to stay that he finally told him to leave.

_No more._

It was well into the early hours when Arthur was roused from a fitful doze he didn't even remember falling into by the sound of voices in the hall. Two of them, it seemed; one female and unfamiliar, shrill and slurred with the cadences of alcohol, and the other—

—the other was so achingly familiar in its rise and fall, in its dipping accent, suave somehow even around an alcohol thickened tongue.

"_Ma cherie, _as much as I wish it were not the case, I simply cannot take you home with me. But there will be other nights, _oui?_"

Arthur nearly winced at the giggle that followed, the sound of it like the scrape of a nail over glass, the woman's voice nearly as bad in her simpering agreement.

"Another night then, _belle, au revoir."_

Arthur was waiting for him when he opened the door. But there was no tapping of the foot, folding of the arms, irritated expression.

Rather, when Francis finally looked up, he found Arthur waiting for him with a frighteningly flat expression, completely still.

_Pushed to the edge._

"Arthur_, mon cher_, why are you awake?" he asked in slightly slurred confusion. The Brit had been fast asleep when he left, he had been sure of it.

"I could ask the same of you," Arthur replied, the flatness of his expression reflected in his voice. "It's nearing dawn, don't you know?"

_Perhaps the first without you. _

Francis frowned. It was difficult for him to read Arthur normally, but now, inebriated and with the other man suddenly so closed, it was proving near impossible. "Arthur—" he tried to say, but was cut off.

"The one night I actually ask you to stay," Arthur said, with a hint of sharpness and something else. "The _one night_."

_Is it so much to ask for your faith for just one night?_

He didn't go on; he didn't need to. Francis ducked his head, guilt and shame flaring to life in the pit of his stomach. "Arthur, I—"

"Save it. I don't need your half-hearted apologies, not again. I don't know why I thought you would ever change."

_Why did I ever think I could be enough?_

Even through the alcohol, Francis was beginning to feel the first traces of deep worry. Arthur had been angry before, upset before, but never before had he been this frighteningly...detached. Frustrated, scared, he tried to speak again. "_Please_, will you just let me—"

"No, Francis, I will not _just let you_. Not this time—I've had enough. Enough of the lies and the empty promises, enough of being your _other man_."

_I am giving up on you._

Francis's eyes widened, and finally he found the space to speak. "But, _mon cher_, you aren't—how could you ever think—"

"Have you ever given me a reason not to?" Arthur retorted, and Francis fell silent. Because he knew the answer.

He hadn't.

"What do you want from me?" he asked, the words a leaden weight on his tongue. He wasn't sure if he wanted the answer.

Arthur was silent for a long moment, staring at something non-descript, fighting some internal battle. "I want you..." he began, hesitating just for a moment.

_To stay._

_To give me a reason._

_To tell me the truth._

"...to leave," he finished, impossibly soft.

Somehow, expecting it only made hearing it worse. Francis flinched as though struck, eyes widening as the true gravity of the situation hit him.

_I am losing him._

"B-But-" Francis stuttered in a rare moment of ineloquence, taking a desperate step forward only to watch Arthur take that same step away. "Arthur, _mon cher_, please, don't say that—we can try—_I _ can try—"

"If there was ever a point where you were willing to try, we wouldn't be here," Arthur cut him off again, refusing to look at him. "And now, you're far too late. I want you to leave, Francis. And I don't want you to come back."

_Unless you're willing to stay._

Francis could only stare at him, the shock beginning to set in. After all this time, he was...

...losing him?

_You have no one to blame but yourself._

"Stay the night if you must," Arthur told him. "I know you're drunk. But in the morning...I want you gone."

Before Francis could say anything else, before he could even begin to put a semblance of order to his disjointed, racing thoughts, Arthur was gone, vanished into the depths of the apartment, likely to their bedroom.

...Arthur's bedroom, now.

Numbly, Francis stumbled to the couch, sinking to sit on it before his wobbly legs could send him crashing to the floor. He stared unseeingly at the ground, thoughts spinning in turmoil.

Arthur had left him. Arthur had given up on him.

_He was such an idiot_.

He'd taken him for granted, and now he was paying for it. Of course Arthur would eventually give up on the lie that they were okay. Of course Arthur would eventually tire of coming second, no matter what.

Francis buried his face in his hands, and let himself mourn.

It would be a long time before he let himself sleep.

* * *

Arthur fled to the bedroom and nearly fled again once there, the memories contained in that small room nearly enough to overwhelm the detached façade he'd been keeping all night.

He'd been such an idiot, to think that Francis would ever change, to think that they could ever be okay together. To think that to someone like Francis, he would ever come first.

Hardly aware, he sank into the armchair in the corner of the room, staring blankly into the darkness, just beginning to be edged with the grey light of almost dawn.

Come tomorrow, he'd be alone again.

_And so it goes._

And the truth was, he could say he was used to it, but after so many years, fraught with pain and infidelity as they were...he wasn't. Not anymore.

A sudden warmth in his lap made him look down, startled, only to have his expression soften into a small, tired smile as he saw what—or rather, who—was there: Gawain, his cat.

"You and me again, old friend?" he murmured, watching Gawain settle himself. Absently he lifted a hand to stroke the feline's back, turning his head to stare out the window and watch the world become washed in gray, black, and white.

"Over and over," he whispered. "I'm just not meant to keep anyone, am I?"

Somewhere between one breath and the next he managed to doze off again.

* * *

Francis awoke and for one brief moment his only thought was as to why on Earth he and Arthur had fallen asleep on that blasted couch again.

But then he realized—there was no warm body against his side, no soft breath against his ear, nothing to be felt or heard but cold and silence.

And then he remembered.

He pressed a hand to his eyes but there were no more tears to be shed; what few he'd been capable of were already gone.

He would have to leave soon. It was early morning, to judge by the light, and soon Arthur would be awake—if he had even slept—and would expect him to go.

_And not come back._

Francis, more than anything, did not want to leave. Funny, he knew, how only once Arthur finally decided to let him go, was he willing to try and hold on.

Eventually, he forced himself to stop wallowing, to stand. If he was to leave, there were things he needed to gather—the majority of which, he suddenly realized, were in thei—Arthur's room .

He could, he knew, be a coward and simply leave, to ask Arthur to send the things along later. Or, he could—and knew he must—face him.

No matter how much it would hurt.

He found himself, suddenly, in front of the—_Arthur's _room. The choice of whether or not to knock, however, was taken away from the abrupt opening of the door—revealing Arthur, haggard and sleep-worn, and, upon seeing him, quite surprised.

* * *

Arthur awoke to the scent of roses, so close and sweet and painfully familiar that for a moment, just a moment, he forgot where he was, who exactly wasn't there, and why exactly he wasn't there.

But then he remembered and his eyes snapped open, searching wildly for a moment before he sagged again. He was alone.

It was just a scent. It would fade with time...but the memories...

_They will stay, as much as I want them to leave._

He shook his head and stood, gently dislodging a sleepy Gawain from his lap. Francis would still be here somewhere, as he'd told him he could stay the night, unless he stumbled out in a drunken daze.

It was time for him to go, before this became much, much harder than it already was. He made his way slowly to the door an opened it, intending on heading out, only to stop dead, eyes widening, at who was on the other side.

It was Francis, looking pale and exhausted and...sad...looking just as surprised as Arthur was sure he did at the moment.

"Francis," he acknowledged quietly. "So you did stay the night."

"...I did not have much of a choice," Francis replied, after a moment. "Seeing as my nearest home is in the next country. But thank you."

Arthur almost winced. It was a very subtle reminder of just what this place wasn't, anymore—_their_ home.

_A home without your heart is a lonely place, indeed._

There was a long moment of silence, uncomfortable and thick with all the words they refused to say.

"...I need to collect my things," Francis said finally, softly, an Arthur nodded.

"I'll leave you to it then," he replied, and edged around him to flee to the kitchen. Tea sounded wonderful at the moment.

* * *

Francis moved around what used to be their bedroom slowly, collecting clothing and small items to place in his suitcase that had been collecting dust at the back of their closet for months now, since they decided to live together.

It was an altogether painful experience, even more so when he stopped to stare at the single photograph of them sitting on the side table.

He had managed to make Arthur smile, in that picture.

_Just this once, won't you smile for me?_

He closed his eyes and turned away. No use dwelling on such memories, when that was all they were now and al they would ever be—memories.

_I will not forget._

He was done here. Quietly, he closed the door behind him, and went to find Arthur.

He supposed it was time to say goodbye.

Arthur leaned against the countertop, staring into the depths of a steaming cup of tea as though it might hold the answers to all of his questions.

Last night, so angry and hurt—he'd been so sure of what he was doing. So sure of being right. So sure that he was _capable_ of doing it. To himself. To Francis.

To them.

But now...he wasn't sure of anything, anymore.

Someone cleared their throat quietly, and he looked up, only slightly startled. Something in his chest tightened when he saw Francis standing there, looking impossibly tired, a suitcase resting beside him.

"You've finished?" he asked, turning away to empty the remains of the tea into the sink, somehow unable to bring himself to look at him.

"Oui," Francis replied, watching him rather sadly. "If I've missed anything..."

"I'll send it along," Arthur said, finally forcing himself to turn around. "I think it's time for you to leave, Francis."

Francis swallowed. "I know," he admitted. "But...I do not want to go."

Arthur looked down. "...I know," he murmured.

_I don't want you to go._

He flinched as there was suddenly a hand beneath his chin, forcing him to look up, to look at Francis who was suddenly right there. He tried to jerk away, but there was nowhere for him to go. "Francis, what—"

"Look at you," Francis murmured, almost absently. "Neither of us wants this. Why are you doing it?"

Arthur faltered. "I..." he began, but trailed off, the words dying on his tongue. "I don't know."

Hurt flashed through Francis's eyes. "Well then, _know, _or will I walk out that door and the both of us wonder for the rest of our lives whether or not it was a mistake?"

"...I don't _know_," Arthur repeated. "But I...I can't do this, Francis. Not anymore."

Francis only looked at him, expression unreadable. "What is it that you want from me, Arthur?" he asked again, quietly.

Arthur was silent, for a very, very long moment, weighing his words. "...for you to _stay,_" he finally answered, and looked up, looking Francis right in the eyes, hoping beyond all hope that maybe he would finally _understand._

And he did. Finally, he did. He could see it.

_I am not asking you for forever, because I know you cannot promise me that. All I ask is that so long as you stay...you _stay.

Arthur did not protest when Francis's arms snaked around his waist, pulling him close. He only sighed, long and tired, and for once, let himself be held. He was too spent to argue anything.

"I will stay, _mon cher_," Francis murmured against the top of his head. "For so long as you want me, I promise I will stay."

Arthur shook his head. "Don't make me promises that I'll hold you to. Just..."

He didn't finish the thought—he didn't have to. Couldn't, in fact, because then Francis was kissing him and he was letting him and maybe, just maybe, he was smiling. Just a little.

_Stay._

* * *

__...was browsing my profile and realized it had been nearly a year since I posted anything. At all. I...have no excuses, really. Just...school, real life, getting closer to college, lack of motivation...don't really know what to tell you.

This was for a Secret Santa gift exchange back in December. Not really sure if it ever made it to its intended recipient, but here it is for you. Any mistakes in my limited French, or anything else, feel free to point them out.

Any SOY fans that might chance to peek at this, the depths of my guilt cannot possible be conveyed but...it's starting to go again. Slowly, but it's going. It wasn't for a while. It's summer now, at least...

See you around.

- Erin


End file.
